


Homeward Bound

by neurotrophicfactors



Series: Tumblr Shorts [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurotrophicfactors/pseuds/neurotrophicfactors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn used to dread these moments: when Tristran lifted the heavy shield he bought in Hightown and met her eyes across the manor. The shield was made of silverite—sturdy and expertly crafted into a wide, shallow dome. On the outer surface, an elegant tree had been embossed into the metal, bordered with twisting vines that stretched around the circumference and reached for the epicenter like grasping fingers. The first time Evelyn saw it, the shield was flawless. There wasn’t a single scratch or discolouration in sight. It must have cost a small fortune.</p>
<p>Evelyn hated it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Evelyn belongs to the lovely [@openthepocketwatch](http://openthepocketwatch.tumblr.com)

Evelyn used to dread these moments: when Tristran lifted the heavy shield he bought in Hightown and met her eyes across the manor. The shield was made of silverite—sturdy and expertly crafted into a wide, shallow dome. On the outer surface, an elegant tree had been embossed into the metal, bordered with twisting vines that stretched around the circumference and reached for the epicenter like grasping fingers. The first time Evelyn saw it, the shield was flawless. There wasn’t a single scratch or discolouration in sight. It must have cost a small fortune.

Evelyn _hated_ it.

It became a symbol of everything that was wrong with her, all of the ways she was broken. It became the pressure of the prosthetic fitted around the remains of her arm and the aching absence of the limb it replaced, the inadequacy of this cheap imitation. It was the almost too tightness of the strap that held it in place and the throb of her muscle as she peeled it away later, the sweat that pooled on her skin and the tears of frustration that gathered in her eyes as Tristran commanded, “ _Again_ ,” for what felt like the thousandth time. It was the weight of her body thrown into each strike and the dagger grip she couldn’t feel in the hand that wasn’t truly hers. It was the stares of shock and pity and the assumption that she could no longer lead, could no longer _fight_ , and the niggling fear pressed _down, down, down_ that they were right. It was the loss of the Inquisition—a dearth she felt as keenly as a tightrope walker suddenly faced with no safety net—and the burden of a world that depended on her even as it spurned her for her power; for being _too_ powerful in comparison to the leaders who used their authority to do nothing.

Now the shield was battered: the smooth, beautiful metal scratched and dented; flecks of oxidization where sweat had dripped and never been wiped away, leaving superficial patches of darkened silver. Now Tristran complained mildly that the leather strap on the inside had become stretched, forcing him to add another notch into the belt so that it would stay secure on his arm, and Evelyn joked that his arm had simply grown thinner—weakened from holding a shield all the time instead of practicing with his greatsword. Now the shield was flawed, like her. Damaged, but still strong.  

So when Tristran caught her eye and tilted his head toward the ceiling, the corner of his mouth curving into a sly grin, Evelyn snatched up her sheathed dagger eagerly, belting it at her waist to free up her hand as she grabbed her prosthetic. The night air was cool but refreshing as she followed Tristran onto the roof of her manor. The sparse clouds did little to block out the light of the moon and stars, bathing the city in a soft glow. Wind, like fingers, teased her bangs in front of her eyes and Evelyn shook them away, briefly envying Tristran for the way he kept his hair shorn close to the scalp. As if sensing the turn of her thoughts, the other elf flashed a wide smirk in her direction as he tugged the shield’s strap tight over his palm and forearm.

“Are you just going to stand and stare all night or are we going to practice that arm of yours?” Tristran asked, a playful tone weaving through his words like a butterfly flitting between flowers in a field.

Evelyn grinned as she fit the socket of her prosthetic over the stump of her arm, then belted it into place. “Oh, I don’t know,” she told him. “I was thinking about sitting back and watching you flex your small arms.”

A bright laugh, like sunshine filtering through leaves. Tristran shook his head back and forth, teeth glinting white beneath the moon. He shifted his weight to one foot—his _real_ foot—and placed his free hand on his hip. “I keep telling you: leather stretches.”

Evelyn’s lips curled into a wicked smirk. “Telling _me_ or telling yourself?” She placed the handle of her dagger in the palm of her prosthetic and curled the segmented metal fingers around it. Then she swung her arm back and forth lightly, accustoming herself to the familiar motion. “Ready when you are,” she finally said.

Tristran raised the shield and bent his legs slightly, bracing himself for impact. “I’m always ready.”

Evelyn closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The air chilled her insides on its way down to her lungs and was warmed there before it exited through her nostrils. It smelled of salt and the sea, that unique scent of decaying marine life that permeated coastal regions. Distantly, she could hear frogs singing and bats chirping as they snatched insects out of the air to feed on; miniature dragons terrorizing tiny cities in the sky.

Evelyn’s legs coiled beneath her like springs, and then she lunged forward with her dagger raised high. The blade came down with a loud crash as it struck the shield, and Evelyn felt a rush of satisfaction as she saw a new scratch gouged into the metal, dragging downward in a jagged, white line. The force of the blow made Tristran move back a half-step and he smiled at her around the edge of the shield.

“Good. _Again_.”

They moved like dancers. Evelyn knew Tristran’s body almost as well as her own. She knew how he moved—how he pivoted his body about his left leg, where he had the most control; how he accounted for his right leg’s limited range of motion with deliberate steps; the tense way he held his shield as if he wished it was a sword instead; how he still moved like a swordsman even as he played the defender; how he would press his free hand against the inside of the shield as his arm grew tired. Likewise, Tristran always seemed to know where Evelyn would strike, raising the shield accordingly and stepping to the side to accommodate her space.

They moved in synchrony; ebbing forward and back like the waves of the sea. One moment Evelyn was advancing, next she was pushed back as Tristran came toward her. They matched each other’s steps, fluid, and it reminded Evelyn of the way the Orlesians danced in court.

By the time it was over they were both dripping with sweat and aching with exertion, breath coming in heavy pants. Tristran’s mouth twisted as he removed the shield from his arm and shook out the limb, then he grinned at her.

“Good thing you’re on _my_ side—you’re getting stronger every day,” he said lightly, but there was a streak of pride beneath it, fierce and pleased. Evelyn wondered what sort of fulfillment Tristran got out of her progress. Perhaps he was healing vicariously through her, watching her prosthetic arm gradually become an extension of herself just as his wood and metal leg became for him; or perhaps it was just the way his eyes lingered on her lips whenever she smiled and the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Perhaps it was simply a part of being Tristran.

Evelyn felt warm and contented. Truth be told, she was proud of herself as well. She would never be the same as she was before, but she could be okay with who she was becoming.

She rolled her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side, popping her joints. “Of course,” she replied. “It’s not like I defeated Corypheus with good looks alone.”

“Good looks?” The playful voice was back, edged with shallow barbs. “I thought it was the stench that killed him; you smell _awful!_ ”

Evelyn laughed, heading toward the doorway back into the manor’s attic. “If my stench offends you so badly, perhaps you should draw a bath for me.”

With a sweeping gesture of his hand, Tristran bent into a low, sarcastic bow. “At once, my lady.”

Tristran followed Evelyn down through the attic to the second floor hallway, then parted to divest himself of his shield. Evelyn’s feet clacked against the wooden floorboards and she ran her fingertips against the blue patterned wallpaper, chasing the deeper swirls and flourishes across the landscape. When she reached her bedroom, Evelyn left the mahogany door half-open as she padded over the Dalish rug to her nightstand, where she set down her sheathed dagger. Then Evelyn sat on her forest green bedspread, distorting the image of leaves and vines embroidered in gold. The bed wasn’t especially large and the mattress wasn’t especially soft—a fact which she appreciated. The enormous, plush bed she’d slept in during her stay at the Winter Palace had felt too decadent, too unnatural, for her to find comfort in.

She reached up to loosen her bun and dark, damp hair came cascading down her shoulders as she shook her head. She closed her eyes and breathed in the faint scent of citrus and lavender as she leaned back on her hand. The scent of her soap always lingered in her bedroom, creating a peaceful atmosphere. The sweat which had cooled on her body now warmed as the fire blazed in her hearth. Faintly, she could hear the grandfather clock in the main hall ticking.

Footsteps.

Evelyn couldn’t help the small smile that touched her lips as Tristran predictably nudged open the door and entered her bedroom, carrying a large pail of water. She watched him set the pail over the fire to boil for her bath, then he lifted the chair from her desk and carried it over to set down in front of her. Tristran sat in the seat and lifted Evelyn’s prosthetic into his lap, leaning forward to unbuckle it from her arm. The belt came free with a few deft tugs, and then Tristran was slowly lowering the metal contraption to the floor next to him. Without a word, Tristran’s hands returned to Evelyn’s arm to massage the blood back into it. He didn’t try to avoid the scarred end of her stump, faint green tendrils winding through pink tissue. Instead he gently worked his fingertips into all of the muscle equally, easing the twinges of pain that arose by pressing tender circles into aching flesh.

Evelyn sighed as the tension gradually disappeared beneath Tristran’s fingers. She made the mistake then of glancing down at him. Tristran’s eyes were heated amber, piercing into hers instead of watching her arm. Evelyn froze, breath hitching in her throat. It always gave her pause when Tristran looked at her like this: like she was the centre of his world.

She wondered, absently, if she used to look at Solas like that.

She barely even noticed as Tristran’s hands stopped moving, simply holding her arm between them. Warmth balled in the centre of her chest like a small sun—or perhaps it was more accurate to call it a moon, reflecting Tristran’s light. It felt only natural for Evelyn to lean forward and fit their mouths together in a chaste, but lingering kiss. Tristran tasted nothing like Solas. Where the wolf was rich layers of exotic spices, sharp and at times bitter, Tristran was all sweetness and simple comforts. Dalish tea and summer fruit. Solas was like traveling the world, but Tristran was like coming home.

They parted reluctantly from the kiss, like two magnets stuck together being slowly drawn apart. Tristran’s face was flushed, highlighting the spray of freckles across his skin. He smiled dreamily as he stared into Evelyn’s eyes, reaching up with one hand to brush her hair away from her face.

“You get so far away sometimes,” he whispered reverently, as if he was afraid to break the silence that hung over them like a spell. “I wonder where you go.”

He didn’t ask it like a question, demanding no answers from her, and for that, Evelyn adored him. She leaned into the fingertips that still lingered at her temple, reveling in their warmth.

“Nowhere I can’t return from,” she assured him.

Perhaps Evelyn wasn’t ready to stop wandering the world quite yet, but one day she knew she would be ready to come home.


End file.
